Letters from the Dead
by LivingInAnotherUniverse
Summary: Violet Holmes is dead. She has left letters, addressed to a mysterious friend, but given to her youngest son. How will this affect young Sherlock's view on friends, family, and love?
1. Prologue

So, this is a thing. Read and review? Please?

**Letters from the Dead: Prologue **

Mycroft sighed, uncomfortable with the tedious task his father had put upon his 21-year-old shoulders. He had never been close to his mother, had never really understood her. They had never been close, no, that was Sherlock's position.

Sherlock was the youngest, and their mother's favorite. He was the one she had doted on, the one she took a special interest in.

It was fitting, in a way. Mycroft looked more like his father then his mother, though they shared some similar features. But Sherlock, Sherlock had been his mother's child through and through. The same high cheekbones, skinny frame (it helped that neither of them ate much), curly black hair, striking blue eyes.

Mycroft wasn't bitter. No, he enjoyed the attention he garnered from his father, the advice and help he received as he entered British politics.

It was just awkward and tedious to have to clean out his mother's bedroom after she was gone. Who knew she had so many papers in her closet? Most of them academic, though some were obscure things that even a smart man like Mycroft could not understand. Diagrams of weird machines or models of something that looked celestial, but Mycroft wasn't sure. He didn't care either way.

Hours passed, her closet was empty. Papers stacked in neat piles in the center of the spacious room, her clothes in bags next to the piles. Mycroft moved on to his mother's bed-side table, whose drawers were, no doubt, filled with either trinkets or even more papers.

It was the latter.

_Dearest Sherlock,_ the top page said, inked in a shaky hand that was still recognizably his mothers. Mycroft glanced at the open door, knowing that he probably shouldn't be reading past that. In fact, he should have probably put it in the piles with the rest of the papers. But curiosity gripped Mycroft, and he began to read.

_Dearest Sherlock, _

_You have known for a very long time that this day would come. You knew it before I did, somehow. _

_Because of this, I want to tell you something. Several things, in fact. _

_The following pages were written for my own amusement, ways of remembering memories that would quickly fade or never faded at all, but everything grows blurry in my mind now as the medicine affects me. _

_Now they are for you, Sherlock, my son. Remember them. _

_Remember me. _

_Please. _

_Violet Holmes_

Mycroft shook his head, sighed, and gathered up the pages out of the drawer. It wasn't his place; these were not meant for him. He padded down the hall, past his father's room and his own, until he stood before his younger brothers door.

The door itself was normal, but what lay beyond it was anything but. Just barely cracked open, Mycroft could hardly see the patterned wallpaper behind the large amount of papers and posters dotting the wall.

Not bothering to knock, the elder Holmes brother slowly opened the door and entered the younger brother's room.

A marble statue does not do justice to the stillness Sherlock Holmes held himself with. It was apparent the fourteen year old had not moved from his upright position on his bed since their mother's funeral almost a week ago.

Instead of trying to "wake up" his little brother, Mycroft put down the papers next to him.

"Whenever you want to, you can read these. They're for you, from her," Mycroft whispered, turning. "Don't forget to eat something, eventually."

The elder brother barely heard the younger's response as he left the room.

"Thanks."


	2. Unexpected

**Letters from the Dead: Unexpected**

Sherlock expected Mycroft to come in eventually, but not like that. Not bearing papers writing by his mother before she died.

He was just being polite, thanking his older brother. Mother would have appreciated that. They didn't talk much, though they acknowledged the bond between them. They would always be there for each other, despite their differences and Sherlock's teasing.

Slowly Sherlock unfurled his long arms from their tight embrace of his knobby knees. His joints creaked, and his neck cracked as he stretched.

Despite his curiosity, Sherlock ignored the stack of papers beside him. Instead he strode swiftly to the closet, grabbing a clean change of clothes and an energy bar. There was no time to grab anything more, and Sherlock wasn't even that hungry, despite not eating for days on end.

With sigh, he sat back down and began to read.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

Even from an early age, Sherlock had learned to divorce himself from emotions, to let himself not care. Caring is not an advantage. But this, this was too much. He felt the slightest prickling of an unfamiliar pain under his eyes. Startled, Sherlock wiped at his eyes, then flinched as he realized what afflicted him.

His mother had raised him more then his father. She was the one who had encouraged him to pursue his interests, be who he wanted to be, to learn violin and fencing. She was the one who bought him university level textbooks on everything from philosophy to anatomy to quantum physics. She was the one that had not looked at him oddly when he came home wanting to become a pirate when he was six, or when he was certain he had solved a murder by age eight, or that he wanted to dissect a cadaver by age ten, though she had refused to indulge that.

Now she was gone. His only real connection to humanity, gone.

All this and more raced through Sherlock's head as he read the first page, the letter pleading for him to remember her.

Sherlock retreated into his mind palace once more, and quickly found the room he was looking for. The door was purple, and when he opened it, the entire room was covered in purple wallpaper, patterned with flowers. This was his mothers' room, where he stored personal memories. He hardly came in here, but it was special to him.

Keeping that room in the forefront of his mind, Sherlock Holmes began to read.


	3. An Introduction

**Letters from the Dead: Introductions**

_May 15, 1974_

Dear Friend,

A dear friend of mine once told me that the best way to remember things is to write it down. It seems appropriate to start this now, now that my life has begun a new chapter, if you can relate a book to a human life. Which, in all sanity, seems odd, but in this case, I think it's called for.

I don't know why I am doing this; there really is no point. I'm going to remember this day, and I'm sure it won't be hard.

After it's all said and done, I am getting married tomorrow, my dear Friend. I am twenty-one and I am going to be married.

His name is Sigmund Holmes. He is minor politician whom my father took under his wing when he entered the world of British politics. Apparently he shows great promise; otherwise my father would not have taken such an interest in my fiancée. The Holmes family is a family friend of ours – I grew up with Sigmund and his younger sister, Eleanor, who is my age. Sigmund is four years my senior, so, twenty-five.

I guess it won't be so hard to marry him. He's alright bloke, though rather ordinary looking. Not a pretty face, but not an ugly one either. Tall, very _very_ tall, with unremarkable blue eyes and dull brown hair.

Friend, would you understand that I've been dreading this day?

I'm still in university, and I still have a long way to go before graduating. I'm trying to get a degree in the sciences. Chemistry and Biology. And I don't have much time to do anything but study.

How I'm still going to be able to study and still be a wife is going to be interesting, and will be one of the first real conversations I have with him once we've tied the knot.

Of course, there will be the discussion of children. I dread that conversation more than the discussion of my education, for reasons of my own. I know, you're curious, but not now. If this is discovered before my wedding … I cannot have anyone knowing what has happened to me in the past. Not even you. I hope you understand.

I must go. I hear my mother, and if she finds this, most likely it will be burned and my pen and paper taken from me until after the wedding.

Much love,

Violet Lecomte-Vernet, soon to be Violet Holmes


	4. My New Life

**Letters from the Dead: My New Life**

_June 9, 1974_

Dear Friend,

You must forgive me, I have not written in a very long time. I have been too busy; though that may seem to be a sad excuse to you, it is not. It is a sad truth.

The semester at university ended a couple days ago, and as I was organizing some of my papers, I found my first letter at the bottom of a stack of notes. I have decided to continue writing, for not only is it good practice, it is, as I said before, a good way to remember things farther down the road.

So, what have I been doing for the past month?

I moved into Sigmund's house the day after our wedding, though it really shouldn't be called a house. It's definitely not a flat. It's more of a mansion, with more space than any single man and his wife and sister can fill up. Eleanor lives with us, and will continue to do so until she can find a husband of her own. The staff here is nice, very polite, though I prefer to do things on my own. Maybe not the cooking or cleaning, but I can take care of my own room.

Wouldn't want any of them to find these letters. I've already hinted at too much.

What else?

Studying, for one. Took exams for my classes, and passed. Next year will be my last year, so I'll be even busier! Sounds exciting! Please tell me you can take the hint of sarcasm; otherwise, this is going to be a dull correspondence. Even if it is to no one in particular….

Being married isn't as fun as many seem to believe. Oh, for certain, Sigmund is a kind man, and has always treated me with respect. He is gentle.

And he has actually agreed to most of my terms when it comes to our marriage. Thank goodness. We've agreed to continue my education, and to my request that we not have children until after I finish university. That'll give me another year or two before kids are ever a problem. Judging from what happened … that's not important. Perhaps I'll tell you later what happened.

Much love,

Violet Holmes


End file.
